3

I GOT THE CALL at eight a.m. while I was still sleeping.

“We got a hot one,” Remy Morgan said.

Remy is my partner, and I often tell her that she smells like milk. This is my joke that she’s young. Like twenty-five years young. She’s also African American, so sometimes she warns me, “Don’t say chocolate milk, P.T., or I’ll beat your ass.”

I pulled the covers off my head. “What’s the case?” I asked hoarsely into my cell phone. I was still wearing my jeans, but no T-shirt or flannel.

“We got a dead guy,” Remy said.

I looked around for my shirt, but didn’t see it. Shook Purvis from atop my legs. This would be Remy’s third murder case, and I could hear that rookie detective excitement in her voice. “Dead good guy or dead bad guy?”

“Dead bad guy,” she said. “And probably beaten to death by other bad guys. I’ll come get you.”

I was out of the shower in five minutes. Pulled on gray slacks and tucked in a white button-down.

Cracking open the fridge, I looked for something to eat. I was developing a new diet that involved stale food, mold, and a lot of instant hot cereal. I could feel a bestseller coming. Or maybe it was a stomach flu.

A car beeped outside, and I glanced through the blue curtains that my wife, Lena, had put up before Thanksgiving of last year. That was four weeks before the accident.

Remy’s ’77 Alfa Romeo Spider was at the curb. I hurried out and squeezed into the passenger seat.

“Where’s the scene?” I asked.

“Numbered streets,” she said.

It sprinkled as we drove, and the trees in the median along Baker Street drooped under the weight of the water. Remy told me about an extreme mud run that she’d won second place in during the weekend.

“You don’t get enough excitement being a cop during the week?” I asked. “You gotta pay someone to get you dirty and let off fake explosions?”

Remy scrunched her brow. She had the sculpted cheekbones of a fashion model. “Don’t be an old man, P.T.”

I knew how competitive Remy was. “Well, if you came in second, who won the thing?”

“Some fireman from Marietta.”

Remy shrugged before letting out a smile. “He won twice actually. I gave him my number.”

I grinned at this, cranking down my window. The wet weather had begun Sunday, and the humidity in between thunderstorms had bleached the blue out of the Georgia sky and made everything a dull military gray.

As we approached 30th Street, I saw the Big Lots where I’d parked the night before, and a lump started to form in my throat. Partly because I don’t believe in coincidences. But mostly because there are no coincidences.

We pulled in front of Crimson’s house on 31st, and I gulped at the humid air coming in the window. The house looked even worse in daylight. More paint had peeled off the facade than was on it.

Remy got out of the car. She had on a pin-striped blouse and black slacks. She tries to dress down how good she looks with these bookish glasses and business suits. But between the two of us, we’re the best-looking pair of detectives in town. Of course, in the area of homicide, there’s only one other set, but hey.

Remy handed me blue latex gloves, and we walked up the driveway. I passed the letter B and the arrow.

“The victim’s male or female?” I asked.

“Male,” Remy said. “Twenty-nine years old.”

When you left here, P.T., he was alive.

Quiet, Purvis. I need to concentrate.

“We got any witnesses who saw the murder?” I asked.

“Not so far,” Remy said. “But the day’s young. We haven’t canvassed yet.”

I looked around. The next-door neighbor’s house had plywood covering the side windows. There were thick dark knots soaked with rain that caused the wood to bow.

I nodded to Darren Gattling, who stood by the front door. Darren’s a blue-suiter who I’d mentored five years earlier.

“M.E. here?” I asked, looking around for the medical examiner.

“Inside,” Gattling said.

I stepped through the front door and saw the room from a different angle than the night before.

The body of Crimson’s dead boyfriend was propped up in a sitting pose, same as when I’d left. Around both eyes were black-and-blue rings. Dried blood clogged his nostrils.

I scanned the room, seeing details I hadn’t noticed in the dark. Hefty bags full of trash overflowed in the corners. An Everlast punching bag hung by the window.

Hovering over the man was Sarah Raines, the county medical examiner, dressed in a blue crime scene coverall.

“Detective Marsh,” the M.E. said without looking up.

Sarah was mid-thirties and blond. She’d bumped into me in the hallway two weeks ago and asked me to dinner. Since I’d politely declined, I hadn’t seen much of her in my side of the building.

“Doc,” I said.

Remy pulled up beside me. She had an iPad Mini she took notes in and was using a gloved finger to page down through them.

“His name’s Virgil Rowe.” Remy motioned at the body. “He did seven years at Telfair for aggravated assault. Been out eleven months with no job.”

I reached out a gloved hand and picked up the brick of pot. It weighed around three pounds. “Looks like he was self-employed,” I said. “What do you put the street value of this at, Rem? Two g’s?”

Remy gripped it. “More like thirty-five hundred.” She raised an eyebrow. “But whoever killed him—they didn’t take it.”

I turned to Sarah. “You got a range on time of death?”

The M.E.’s blond hair was tied back in a purple scrunchy, but a few strands hung down over her face. “I’d put T.O.D. at four to six hours ago.”

“So between two and four a.m.” Remy typed into her iPad.

I took a moment, thinking about what time I’d left here last night. Must’ve been half past three.

“Who called it in?” I asked.

“Corinne Stables,” Remy said, bringing up a picture. “She’s Virgil’s girlfriend.”

I stared at the iPad. Corinne was Crimson’s legal name. Which made Crimson her stage name.

“She’s here?” I asked.

“And beaten up pretty good,” Remy said. “Looks like Virgil gave her the business. Then someone gave it to him.”

My reflection warped through the gold veins of a weathered mirror on the far wall. Had Corinne come back after I’d left and finished off her boyfriend? Or had I stayed longer than I remembered?

Patrolman Gattling was standing inside the door. “We got her in a black and white at the curb, P.T., but she’s already asked for a lawyer.”

My God. Corinne was outside?

“And Rowe?” I looked to the M.E. “What do we know about his injuries?”

“He’s got a broken nose. Some cracked ribs.” Sarah moved around to the back side of the couch. “And there’s this.” She motioned at his neck. “His C5 and C6 are fractured. I’ll know more when I get him on the table, but I would guess that someone choked him.”

“So two guys?” I said. “One beating him up out here. The other holding him from behind?”

Sarah shrugged. “Could’ve just as easily been one guy. Broke his nose and some ribs. Then once Rowe was knocked out, he came around here and finished him off.”

The tip of a yellow plastic lighter peeked out below the coffee table. It was the same one I’d used to light the brick five hours ago.

Your prints are on that lighter.

“Did patrol search the bedroom?” I asked.

“They did a once-over,” Remy said. As she turned toward the bedroom, I used the tip of my loafer to push the lighter under the table.

I walked into the bedroom with Remy, noticing Corinne had cleaned up a bit.

“Ms. Stables was at a girlfriend’s house all night,” Remy read from patrol’s notes. “Came home around seven and found her boyfriend like this. Called 911 at 7:03 a.m.”

From the bedroom, I saw Alvin Gerbin, our crime scene tech, coming in the front door. Gerbin’s a big man, red-faced and from Texas. You can usually hear his voice a full minute before he gets anywhere.

Gerbin plopped down in the chair where I’d sat five hours ago. He wore khakis and a cheap Hawaiian shirt. “If you’re done,” he said to the M.E., “I’ma start printin’ the shit out of this place. Starting right here at the epicenter.”

I stepped out the side door and onto the driveway.

“What’s wrong?” Remy asked.

I glanced back at the house. The bottle of Jack from last night was gone. Someone had come after I’d left. Killed Virgil. Then taken his liquor with them, but not the weed.

“There are a lot of things wrong,” I said. I took a few steps down the driveway toward the street. Stood there a full minute. Corinne was hunched in the back of a cruiser, her body small in the black and white.

“Boss,” Remy hollered, and I turned.

My partner had walked the other way up the driveway. She had the garage door flung open and was crouched over, putting on new gloves.

I needed to tell Remy about the stripper. Before I got in too deep.

“We need to talk,” I said, heading toward her.

But as I got closer, the smell of gasoline burned at my nostrils. Nine five-gallon gas containers were lined up just inside the threshold.

“Five of these are full,” Remy said. “The others don’t have a lick in ’em.” She looked around. “No lawn mower. No gas generator. Nothing that requires gasoline here.”

Behind the gas jugs were three pints of turpentine. Some kerosene. And six cans of butane, the same size as spray paint canisters.

Remy picked up one of the butane cans, shaking it so I could tell it was empty. “You see the news this weekend?”

“My TV’s broken,” I said. Which was technically true. I’d put my foot through it in response to a police reenactment show that had reminded me of my wife’s death.

I pointed down the driveway. “I know her.”

“There was an arson off State 903 yesterday,” Remy continued. “A gas fire with a butane accelerant. Ten acres burned.”

I’d read about this fire. The Mason Falls Register had been in the bathroom at the Landing Patch, and I’d scanned it for top stories. Fire at a farm nearby. Missing kid. Stolen shipment of electronics from Walmart.

But Remy was stuck back on what I’d said.

“Her who?” Remy said. “You know the stripper?”

I was buying time. Thinking.

I remembered hitting Virgil Rowe twice. But then nothing else ’til Remy called an hour ago. When I woke up, my T-shirt and flannel were gone. So was Virgil Rowe’s bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

Who does that sound like? Purvis said inside my head.

I knew what my bulldog was implying. Someone who liked booze but wouldn’t touch marijuana. And that maybe I’d stayed longer than I remembered. Choked Virgil to death while I sipped his Tennessee whisky.

“P.T.,” Remy said, “do you know Corinne Stables?”

“No, the M.E.,” I said, pointing toward the house. “Sarah asked me out two weeks ago. I didn’t want it to be awkward . . . if you didn’t know.”

Remy cocked her head at me. Almost a smile. “Are you and the medical examiner dating?”

I felt light-headed and needed to eat something. “I wasn’t ready,” I said.

My partner nodded, her brow wrinkling. Confused as to why the hell I’d brought it up in the first place.

“This dead guy could be our arsonist, P.T.”

Remy tapped at one of the empty containers. “Maybe there’s others involved . . . one of them wanted to shut him up after the fire? They came here. Choked him out.”

My head was a mess. “I dunno,” I said.

“I’m just spitballing.” Remy stood up, her voice unsure all of a sudden. “You told me to always come up with a theory of the crime. But be open to changing it.”

“No, that’s good,” I said. I saw a trash can by the garage and wandered over to it. Thinking about the bottle of Jack and my missing T-shirt.

Keep it together, P.T. Your shirt isn’t in that trash. You didn’t kill this jerk.

I flipped the trash open, and Purvis was right. There was no T-shirt or flannel inside. Or bottle of J.D.

“What are you thinking?” Remy asked.

“I’m trying to marry all these details,” I said. “You saw his tattoo, right?”

I took off my gloves and dropped them in the trash can, heading back inside.

“Neo-Nazi,” she said. “Yeah.”

“And the brick of pot,” I said. “Whoever killed him—they didn’t take that?”

I headed into the living room with Remy on my heels. “Yeah,” she said. “Haven’t figured out how that makes sense yet.”

I eased down onto the chair beside Gerbin, the crime tech.

“You okay?” he said. “You don’t look well.”

“I don’t feel well,” I said. I leaned my elbows on my knees, and put my head down, counting to three. Then I reached down and grabbed the lighter. Put it on the table. I braced my hands against the edge of the coffee table, right near Gerbin, and waited.

“Boss,” Remy said, “your gloves!”

Gerbin stared at me.

“Shit,” I said. “I took ’em off outside. I felt light-headed and needed to sit down.”

Gerbin was cataloguing everything. “You touched the lighter, the tabletop, the chair arms. Probably the knob to the side door.”

I thought of all the areas I’d made contact with last night.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Gerbin.

“Alvin can exclude your prints, Detective.” This from Sarah, the M.E.

Remy handed me new gloves, and I put them on.

“Why don’t you get some cool air on your face, Detective,” Sarah said. “Sit in a squad car. Blast the AC.”

I looked at the brick of pot. Thought about Corinne.

“I’ll be outside,” I said.

I moved out the door and down the driveway to where patrol was. Remy was confused. Not sure whether to follow me or not.

“Go through every drawer, Rem,” I said to my partner. “Find us something on this girl.”

Remy nodded, and I turned to the patrolman by the squad car. “Take a powder, will ya, buddy.” I got in the front passenger seat of the cruiser.

Corinne Stables sat in the back, her hands cuffed in front of her. This was protocol in domestic violence situations.

In daylight, her bruises were worse than at night. Under light makeup, I could see a purple mark above her right eye. She smelled like a mix of Chanel No. 5 and Vaseline.

“I hope you’re not expecting me to say thank you.” Corinne glared.

There were different ways to take this, but none of them were good.

“I didn’t do that to your man,” I said. “We just talked.”

“Well, neither did I,” Corinne said. “So unless you’re fixin’ to join me back here, you better get me out of these cuffs.”

I shifted to looking straight ahead. Communicating with Corinne through the rearview mirror.

“How long have you lived here, Corinne?” I asked.

“Two years.”

“Your name on the lease or his?”

“Both ours,” Corinne said. Unsure of where I was going with this.

I paused a moment. Bit at my lip.

What a dud, I thought. And I was talking about myself here, not her. I oughta have my head examined for thinking I was gonna help this girl. She told me a sad story while I was having a smoke outside a strip bar. Meanwhile she loved her bigot peckerwood boyfriend and signed a lease with him?

“Do you understand the rules around possession of marijuana versus sale in the state of Georgia? When a brick that size is found in your home?”

“It’s not mine,” Corinne said.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “That much pot is intent to distribute for anyone who’s on that lease. Felony conviction. One year minimum. Ten max. Five thousand dollar fine.”

“Fuck,” she said.

“Exactly. Fuck.” I motioned at the house. “Who owns this place?”

“Some guy two blocks over,” she said. “Randall Moon. Red house on the corner.”

“I’m gonna be the one to talk to him,” I said. “To ask him for the lease on the property.”

Corinne took this in.

“Is he a smart guy, Corinne? Street-smart?”

“Yeah.”

“’Cause I’m gonna tell him if he gives me a lease with your name on it, his place will be deemed a drug house. His property locked down for a year during the trial. Which means no rent money for him.”

“But if only Virgil’s name is on the lease?” Corinne asked.

“Well, Virgil ain’t here to dispute it, so that means you were an overnight guest. And you’re no longer a dealer headed to prison. You know what they’d do to a pretty girl like you in Swainsboro women’s prison?”

“What do you want?” Corinne asked.

“You never met me.”

“My pleasure,” she said.

“And get out of town,” I said. “If you’re from somewhere, go back there. If you’re from here—it’s time to leave.”

Her brown eyes never left mine. Wondering still. Did I do it? Did I kill him?

“You got a question?” I asked.

She hesitated. “For you? Why would I ask you anything? You’re just some random pig. I don’t know you.”

“Good,” I said, and got out of the car.